


Dogs in the Moonlight (The Angels in the Architecture Remix)

by Spiralleds



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Community: remixredux10, Crossover, Episode: s02e22 There’s No Place Like Plrtz Glrb, Episode: s05e22 The Gift, Introspection, M/M, Multi, Remix, Season/Series 02-03 Hiatus, Season/Series 05-06 Hiatus, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiralleds/pseuds/Spiralleds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It always comes back to Angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dogs in the Moonlight (The Angels in the Architecture Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruuger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuger/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Upstairs, Downstairs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3085) by [Ruuger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuger/pseuds/Ruuger). 



This was not how Wesley had imagined it, this 'homecoming'. When he'd left, the failed, disowned Watcher, he'd embraced the ever-so-American value of reinvention. As a Rogue Demon Hunter he would become a legend. Demons would dare to do no more than whisper his name, looking over their shoulders in fear whilst they did so. The Council would notice the drastic reduction in the demon population; they'd seek an answer, realize he was the new variable, and then beg him to return to their ranks. Perhaps they'd even send his father. Wesley rehearsed a myriad of possible responses. It was never yes.

But the longer he remained away, the less he cared if he ever had the chance to reject the organization - the family - that had rejected him. Instead he found himself wanting to someday return here, to Sunnydale. Time and distance helped him to see what he had been: a pompous, self-righteous fool, one who created more difficulties than he solved. He didn't fantasize about being the laurel-wreathed savior of Sunnydale; there was someone much better than him already in the role. He just wanted to be... respectable. And it wasn't just Rupert's respect he'd wanted, but Buffy's.

Instead here he was, paying his respects. In her home, no less. A home into which he'd never previously been invited. As it was, only on the shirttails of Angel's invitation. The irony of it caught in his throat, threatening to spill out in a wholly inappropriate laugh. With the aid of the scotch, he swallowed it back.

The dining room was a surrealist's canvas - or a comedian's punch line - as a watcher, a witch, and a vampire huddled close together, suggesting, rejecting, and refining ideas for how to best conceal from the world the death of the Slayer, this woman they each loved uniquely. In the living room her friends were clustered like a wicker basket of kittens, bodies in comforting contact. Cordy was a part of that, patting Anya's knee as she handed the box of tissues to her. In the overstuffed chair a blonde, Tara, if he recalled properly, stroked Dawn's hair as the girl snuggled against her.

In death as in life, he found himself envious of Miss Summers. How easily she'd drawn others to her, creating family as skillfully as she destroyed evil, whilst he was only adept at alienating himself. That was why he hadn't hesitated to go to Pylea. Outside of Angel and Cordelia, and now perhaps Gunn, not a soul in this world would notice if he disappeared off the face of the earth, let alone mourn his passing.

Wes added another finger of scotch to his glass and pressed his way outside to the solitude of the porch. With the sun gone, a breeze had picked up. Through the trees Venus shown bright, the night's first sentry. Below her clung the crescent moon like a tear on a cheek. Wes leaned against a support beam and sipped at his scotch, melancholy deepening with the dusk. Indeed, he'd never imagined it would end this way. He had thought that one as vibrant as Buffy would live forever.

If he felt this way, what must it be like for her friends, for Rupert, or particularly for Angel? The entire trip down, he'd wracked his brain for the right thing to say, something that might counter the self-recrimination that pressed upon Angel's slumped shoulders. When they'd arrived, Wes had placed an arm on Angel's arm, stopping him at the threshold as Willow and Cordelia entered the Summers' home. Wes had only gotten as far as, "You know this isn't your--" when without a word Angel had shrugged him off and moved on.

"What? No Earl Grey for you?"

The question jolted him from his reverie, though he was pleased to see he neither shattered his glass nor screamed at the surprise. "Wh-where did you come from?" Wesley asked as he found himself sharing the porch with what had to be Spike: bleached hair, leather duster, painted-on denim. Check, check, check. All part of the Council's dossier. It hadn't included the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam, but that fit with the information Willow had supplied about the last few months.

"From a grave, I 'spect," Spike sneered. "Don't they teach you watcher types the basic birds 'n bees of vampires?"

"Well, yes. No. I mean..."

While Wes stuttered nonsensically, Spike had closed the space between them, hands on the railing to either side of Wes, pinning him in place as Spike's mouth hovered by his ear.

"Here's how it works. Killin' and creatin' starts the same way, with a bite you can't resist." The breath of Spike's words was as cold as London fog. "Right here. On the sweet spot of your neck."

While Spike's mouth barely grazed his skin, it was like the sun burning off the morning mist, sending an unbidden flash of heat down Wes' spine and straight to his groin. He was simultaneously disappointed and relieved that Angel was not the only one whose mere tone and touch had that effect. Wes stared straight ahead, trying to steady his breathing as he thought of England, of his training. Of all he'd learned since then. Of the choices he'd made in Pylea.

"But if we want to make ourselves a friend," Spike continued, his voice a near-growl as he pulled up his black tee to expose a chest covered with half-healed cuts, "we open ourselves up, share our very essence."

Looking him in the eyes, Wes took a sip of his drink and then asked as calmly as possible, "Done having your fun yet?"

The predatory look slid away from Spike's face, defeat replacing it. With a shrug he stepped away, slugging down more of his bottle. "Heard about my little problem, did you?"

"Willow was quite thorough in her summary."

"Figures." Spike finished the bottle off, then making a sweeping gesture with it, pointed toward greater Sunnydale. "Onward and upward."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Watcher Junior. Sun's down; time to get to work."

"I'm not a Watcher."

Spike shrugged. "I'm all for a bit of reinvention. So what endearment does Angel call out when it's time to mix it up?"

"I don't see how that's-- And you're a vampire," Wes sputtered. How could someone manage to be this infuriating in such a short space of time?

Spike rolled his eyes. "Yes, I believe I covered that fact. Thing is, I made some promises. 'Sides, I could use a spot of violence. Figured you might like to escape the oppression for a while. Unless you don't want those pretty bookworm hands to get all dirty."

Wes opened his mouth, the phrase 'I'll have you know' on the tip of his tongue, but for once he saw the bait for what it was. He covered by finishing off his scotch, then saying, "By all means, after you."

Threading through backstreets and alleyways, winding around garbage cans and less organized refuse, Wes wondered if there was any method to Spike's madness. "Which cemetery will we be patrolling?"

"Who said anythin' about a cemetery?" Spike replied, never breaking his stride.

While climbing the steps of a loading dock, it struck him that while Spike could not harm him, it was quite possible for Spike to betray him into the hands of other demons. Particularly with Buffy gone, what was to keep him on their side of the fight?

"Ah, Richie, there you are," Spike called out. "Been looking for you everywhere."

In a flannel shirt, denim trousers, heavy boots, and leather gloves, at first glance Richie passed for a warehouse worker. Except Wes deduced the gloves hid nails that were closer to being claws and the long sleeves hid the scales. Though if he was trying to pass as human, how did he explain the lack of ears? Industrial accident?

"Spike. And here I thought you were avoiding me. Come to pay your debts?" Richie gave Wes a top to toe glance. "You know my rules on barter."

Wes' concern switched from the theoretical to the practical - as in how he was going to get out of here alive. He'd berate himself later; now was the time to assess resources and find solutions. Pulling his knife from his boot and getting off the dock the way they'd come seemed like a good start. Surreptitiously he wiped his clammy palms against his trousers.

"I know your rules, Richie," Spike replied, "But do you? Heard tell you've changed 'em." Spike moved closer, his fingers skimming a loop of chain that hung from the ceiling.

Palm up, the demon took a step back. "It was a one-time mistake, Spike. I was told they'd taste like kitten."

"And did they?"

In reply, Richie licked his lips with a lizard-like tongue. Spike flung his Jim Beam bottle at him, catching Richie between the eyes. As he lurched, Spike grabbed him, hoisting his neck into the loop of chain and twisting it.

"Knife," Spike demanded, holding a hand. Wes obliged him and Spike drove it into the soft spot at the base of Richie's skull. "Thanks," Spike said, wiping the knife on the flannel shirt before handing it back to Wes. "Works best when you scramble their lizard brain."

"Ah. Yes. Right." Spike had already hopped off the dock and Wes scrambled to catch up. "What was that about?"

Spike shrugged. "Had a tip there was some demon trafficking going on."

"Demon trafficking of what?"

A side-long glance accompanied Spike's reply. "Demons."

"Oh." Given that humans engaged in human trafficking, it didn't surprise him that demons did likewise to their own. It did surprise him slightly that someone like Spike cared either way. They picked their way through discarded metal, rubber tires, and other debris. The place must be a mosquito breeding ground. But before they had cleared the alleyway, a half dozen blocked their way. "Vampires?" asked Wes as he traded his knife for the stake in his other boot.

A smile that made him shiver lit Spike's face. "Now this," he said, slipping into game face. "This is gonna be fun."

Spike bounded for them, grabbing a discarded pallet on his way and swinging it across the jaw of the closest vampire where it cracked like a gunshot. Not slowing its momentum, Spike let the frame crash into the brick wall, splintering into more usable pieces. With a broken jaw, the one was down but not out and the others circled around Spike, looking for an opening.

Now was not the time to stand gape-mouthed. Wes retreated a few steps and tucked his stake into the small of his back, then pulled one of the soft-sided trash bins toward him. Picking his spot, he heaved it over, a pile of slimy refuse at his feet. Wes side-stepped the mess, angling for a better position as one of the pack split off and came for him.

The vampire was nearly as broad as he was tall and didn't bother to display his true visage as he eyed Wes' weapon of choice and mocked, "Gray-haired grannies with canes have a better survival instinct that you."

Indeed, the odds of this working were not good. Not good at all. Might as well play those odds with flair. "I want to say one word to you. Just one word."

"What's that?" As anticipated, the vampire leapt over the trash - landing one foot inside the abandoned tire.

As he stumbled forward, Wes caught the vampire's upper body in the container, using his own momentum to spin him straight into the brick wall with a satisfying crash. "Plastics."

In the temporary reprieve, he was pleased to see Spike had already dispatched two of them. Wes drove his stake into back of another, realizing too late that letting go of his weapon meant it was now dust along with the vampire.

"Catch," yelled Spike, tossing him one of the slats-turned-stakes.

Wes caught it, wincing as a splinter the size of a toothpick drove into his palm, then turned back to deal with the trash. Unfortunately he'd woefully underestimated the vampire's speed. He was free of the trash bin and hurling toward him. Wes only had time to hold the stake before himself, gripping it tightly with both hands.

He'd fully expected the force of the impact to knock him to the ground; instead the vampire impaled himself on the spear-like stake, his momentum dissipated. The adrenaline of success surged, and Wes spun, looking for his next opponent. But the only one there was Spike.

"Not too bloody bad. Looks like the Pouf is making a man of you in more ways than one."

Wes dropped the makeshift stake. "I believe a compliment is buried in there. Hard to find it when you're set on being such a pain in the arse about Angel."

Spike snorted. "Oh, I've been something in Angel's arse for longer than you've been alive."

Wes wanted to defend Angel's arse... honor... something, but couldn't manage to string together a coherent rebuttal. The pictures Spike was gleefully hanging in the gallery of his mind weren't at all helpful to the process either.

Picking up his pace, Spike said, "Come on, the dead won't raze themselves."

"But if they've been bitten, or somehow cursed, that is exactly the problem - the do raise themselves."

That earned Wes the look. The same one Cordy or Gunn gave him when he said something they deemed particularly inane. The one he'd so often received from Rupert, Buffy, pretty much the entire of the population of Sunnydale. And before that from his classmates and professors. It never failed to throw him back to his seven year old self and that crystalline memory of disappointing his father. He was tired of it. Enough was enough. "What?" Wes demanded, "What did I say that garnered that look?"

Spike's eyebrows crept higher. "It was a play on words, mate. Mind you, technically inaccurate, but still." He shrugged. "It's what passes for fun around here."

"Oh," Wes said, not sure if he felt more foolish or less for confronting the issue.

It was a relief to finally reach the cemetery, which soon turned to disappointment as all was quiet. When had that happened, that nothing to fight was a disappointment? "I suppose we should head back to the house," Wes offered with reluctance.

"What's your hurry?" Spike asked. "Don't know about you, but I could use a drink or two."

"I don't--"

Spike tipped his head, making his smile look even more lopsided. "'Sides, my crypt's right over there and we're both too fucking sober."

Joining a vampire in his lair for a nightcap. What, besides everything, could possibly go wrong? What had possessed him to say yes? But stepping inside, it wasn't at all what he'd expected. Instead of the clammy, cob-webbed darkness, it was rather comfortable. Almost homey. Particularly when Spike pulled two bottles from a full-sized fridge. Gingerly, Wes sat down in an overstuffed chair and took a sip.

The beer was surprisingly dark and biting. Or at least the first two were. Now it was merely smooth and cool. By the collection of empties gathering on the coffee table, Spike had consumed at least twice as much as he - all while doing most of the talking, primarily about Buffy. The poor sod was completely smitten. Not that Wes minded the stories. It helped him understand Buffy as he never had during their interactions. And oddly enough, in glimpsing this core of who she was, he found himself understanding Angel better.

"It always comes back to Angel," said Spike with a sigh.

"Angel?" Wes squeaked. Had he commented out loud? Perhaps it was time to stop drinking.

Spike polished off his beer then ambled back to the refrigerator. "So you 'n Angel..."

"Yes?" Wes asked cautiously.

"Ha! I knew it," Spike said, waving the bottle to punctuate his words. It would not be pretty if he opened it.

"Knew what?" Wes rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of it all.

"That you two are involved."

Wes blinked slowly, as if that would help him understand. "We work together, if that's what you mean. Well, technically, he works for me. Us."

Spike leaned over him, pulling the empty bottle from his hands. "So you two don't blow off a little post-battle steam together?"

"Sometimes we get a drink at Caritas." It was then of all times he noticed just how blue Spike's eyes were. The black and white photo in his Council dossier had captured how piercing they were, but not their color. Mesmerizing.

Spike rolled those eyes. "Oh for the love of-- Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Spell out what?" Wes asked, trying to remember what the question had been.

Smooth, cold glass pressed against the inside of Wes' knee, followed by Spike slowly sliding the bottle inward along his inseam. "Sex, pet. Between you and Lord of the Brood?"

Wes wet his lips, realizing rather inopportunely that he'd avoided entertaining this exact question. Nothing good could result from thinking of Angel in that way. "I... He... We... Er, no."

Spike smiled with a look of triumph and leaned even closer, a knee now resting between Wes' own. "See? Was that so hard?"

Oh, things were hard, of that there was no doubt. It was like a redux of their meeting on the porch. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. And God, he was a fool - and from all appearances, providing quite the amusement for Spike. Groaning, Wes closed his eyes.

They flew back open as he realized Spike's lips were pressed against his. He gasped, which Spike took as an invitation, deepening the kiss as his hands rested lightly on the top of Wes' thighs, thumbs tracing the folds of the fabric. Wes put his hands to Spike's chest, but instead of pushing him away as he intended, Wes found himself pulling him closer, found himself returning the kiss.

Wes was equally unsuccessful in pushing away the percussive dots and dashes that were tapping out a warning in his mind. _This is madness. He's a demon, a vampire._ With a chip._ A soulless creature._ Who is heartbroken. _Who resents, if not hates Angel._ Well, there was that.

In the blink of his internal fight, Spike had pulled him to his feet, spun him, and pinned him to the wall without ever losing the contact of the kiss.

_Indeed, this is not going to end well_. Sod off, Wes thought as he pressed his hips against Spike's, enjoying the firmness he found.

It was then that Spike broke the kiss, pushing off. "Fuck," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck. It's always about Angel, innit?"

"Pardon?" asked Wes, grasping for purchase in this sea of madness. "I told you that Angel and I--"

"Then why do you _smell_ like 'im?" Spike demanded. "You couldn't stink any more of 'im if the two of you oiled up and grappled like a couple of Greeks."

"I don't know," Wes said, his own frustration putting as edge to his voice. "Trust me, you had my full attention."

Throwing up his hands, Spike stalked off and then began rummaging around in a trunk. It crossed Wes' mind that perhaps _now_ was a good time to leave. However, the rubbery condition of his legs overrode that idea.

"Sit down before you fall down," Spike ordered, pushing him toward the overstuffed chair. Once in it, he pressed a glass into Wes' hand. "Here."

Wes looked at it dubiously. "What is it?"

"Scotch," said Spike, spinning a wooden chair around and dropping into it, legs splayed in a way that made it that much more difficult for Wes to focus on his words. "Comes highly recommend by Rupert."

Wes surmised that he'd lifted the bottle from Rupert's home at some previous point in time. "Thanks?"

Spike shrugged and gulped down his own glass. Poured another, gulped that, then spoke. "Thing is, you're lying."

"I swear--" Spike cut him off with a look.

"Yes, you are. Not to me, to yourself. You want Angel so badly _I_ can taste it. Save yourself a few years of therapy and just tell him." Spike gave him a weak smile as he stood. "Story of my ever fucking life. Do me a favor? Let me know when they set the time, place, and mystical details of her final rites?"

Not trusting his voice, Wes nodded in assent, then watched as Spike descended a ladder into the depths of the crypt, leaving Wes alone with a new cacophony of thoughts.

Those thoughts accompanied Wes on his walk back to the Summers' home. They pressed in on the edges of his mind during the funeral. They needled him the entire trip back to LA with Cordelia and Angel as they all struggled for something to say. Once home, his thoughts kept sleep at bay until he finally accepted Spike's analysis of the situation: Wes' feelings for Angel went beyond admiration. And telling him was not an option; it was a necessity.

In the shower Wes rehearsed the conversation, wanting to anticipate every direction it could go. Shock? Surprise? Amusement? Horror? Delight? Granted, the last was extraordinarily unlikely. Not to mention that the timing was atrocious, following on the heels of Buffy's death as it did. But now that Wes was himself aware, not speaking up was unfathomable. For good or ill the sun would not go down on this day without him knowing exactly where he stood with Angel.

On his way to the hotel, his nerves played havoc, making him wish he'd forgone even the tea and toast. He took several cleansing breaths to quell his pulse and then pulled open the Hyperion doors, trying to appear normal. "Good morning, Cordelia. Is Angel in?" He winced at his near sing-song pitch.

"He's gone," she said flatly.

"That's alright," he said to himself as much as her. "It can wait."

"He didn't tell you either, did he?" It was then he noticed her blotchy coloring.

"Are you alright?" he asked, moving quickly to her side. "Did you have a vision? Perhaps you should sit down."

She shook her head. "It's Angel."

"What about him?" Wes demanded. It has been mere hours since they had parted. How could something have happened? Why had they left Angel alone? Why had Wes not spoken then? Had not Buffy's death reminded him of the fleeting nature of life?

"He's gone," she whispered.

"You don't mean..." His brain refused to register the possibility of the word, let alone voice it.

Her mouth formed the word no, but no sound followed. She closed her eyes and swallowed. When she opened them, the Cordelia Chase fire had returned to her eyes. "He left," she said crisply.

"Without saying goodbye?"

She handed him the envelope, muttering something about checking on Fred as she crossed the lobby with clipped steps, leaving him alone.

Wes read their names and traced a finger over the perfect cursive that was so distinctly Angel's. Wes had thought he would be the one with the day's revelation. Leave it to Angel to provide the greater surprise. Turning the envelope over, his hands trembled as he worked the letter free. Yet he couldn't bring himself to unfold it. He didn't need to read it to know what it said. They weren't enough. The balm of their friendship could never touch the soul-searing pain of losing Buffy. And there was someplace, someone whom Angel believed could help in a way they could not.

Wes ached with a hollowness, as if his heart had been excised from his chest. If they as a team weren't sufficient in matters of his grief, how utterly delusional had he been to even entertain the idea Angel might have found him sufficient in matters of the heart? He was a fool's fool. Hadn't every previous relationship in his life informed him of his insufficiencies?

All his life he'd begged for the merest scraps of affection and approval, like a dog who returns, tail wagging, no matter how many times he has been kicked. Starting with his father. (Later writ large on the Council.) Repeated with his best chum, Ned. The one with whom he'd shared every interest and confidence - until the teasing of their peers caused Ned to forsake him, disown him for the safety of the pack. These patterns followed him across the pond. No matter where or who, it was always the same. Insufficient. Yet he'd ignored those lessons and taken a flight of fancy over Angel. _Angel._

Wes dropped the unread letter to the desk and walked away. He had no one to blame for this bitter disappointment but himself. He never should have imagined otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Soundingsea, Sunnyd_lite, and Smiling_n_Mich for their beta work.


End file.
